Beloved bonds

10 Females Fettered

“I’m sorry I’m so disappointing.” Caroline used her teeth to tug at the knot of her bound hands. She cocked an amused eye at her companion. “I’m not behaving a bit like a girl should do when saved from a fate worse than death.”

James Dexter grinned wryly down at the naked woman on the rug. He had not bothered to cover her, guessing her mood. “I’m not too surprised,” he conceded.

“A gentleman would untie a lady’s hands.”

“So I’m not a gentleman! Are you sure you’re a lady?”

Caroline stopped nibbling, and let her tied hands fall to her waist. Upon her nudity were still the make-believe red streaks from the make-believe whip. She eyed the man in the chair with sorrow. “Where the devil are we—and how—?”

Dexter waved her query aside. “It doesn’t matter. We’re safe.” He eyed her with exasperation. “I had to do this, Caroline. I’ve been bothered from the start. I couldn’t allow you—”

“To be publicly whipped!” She laughed at his dolor. “Oh, James, if you only knew . . . !” She suddenly tensed at him. “How did you persuade the rebels to make that raid. ? Are you one—?”

“No, I’m not! I just took advantage of a situation I knew about in advance. A few bribes in this country—!”

“What did you do to poor Assad?”

“Poor! Good gosh, Caroline, are you that pally with your torturer! We drugged his drink. I expect he’s still wondering what happened.” He looked down at his lovely captive askance. “Dammit, that guy was going to flog your naked back!”

“He’s awfully good at it, and quite nice.”

“Can’t you be a bit serious! I’ve staked a lot on this—” he glowered. “Really, Caroline, you’re impossible.” He reached down and tore at the rope which joined her hands. But when he cast it aside he took handcuffs from his pocket and prisoned her wrists once more. She did not resist, holding still while he tightened them to the last humane notch. “I brought these just in case,” he said lamely.

Caroline, pertly, held them up to admire. “I don’t think I’ve worn this make before. Why am. I wearing them now, James?”

“I didn’t notice you struggling.”

“Don’t be cross. And that didn’t answer my question.”

“I brought them because of what I know about you. Remember our first time together! And your behavior at the Consulate—and in that damn awful cage.”

“It was a lovely cage. I’ve never been so admired.”

“You adore those things on your wrists. C’mon, be honest?”

“Sure I do,” Caroline admitted without guile.

“I’ve given up apologising . . .” She twisted her wrists this way and that. “These are beautifully made, much nicer than some.”

“I bought the most expensive I could find.” His voice was suddenly tender. “In fact, I bought several pairs.”

“Oh, darling, how sweet! Want to use one on my ankles?”

“No. I’m indulging you enough. What the devil am I going to do with such a bundle of unreasonable eroticism!”

“I’ve never been called exactly that before. How sweet! All you have to do, James, is let me loose somewhere where I’ll be found and taken to Khalief . . . I’ll think of a story. Trust me.” She flaunted the handcuffs. “If I’m found wearing these it will be even more authentic.”

“I intend to take you back to the U.S.A. If your marriage to Dowling is finished, then I’ll marry you.”

They surveyed each other in silence, a stillness pregnant with divergent thought. Caroline made a small moue of helplessness. “Gosh, James, we’re only about ten thousand miles apart.” She looked up at him in rueful disclaimer. “And don’t I have anything to say—?”

He was the man of decision. “In this country and under these ridiculous circumstances, no! You’re under the influence of your own cute little aberration, and the overwhelming personality of the strongest man I’ve ever met.” He sneered bitterly. “To say nothing of his sexual prowess. You’re not responsible. You need looking after.”

Caroline clinked her handcuffs ruefully. “Maybe I shouldn’t have let you put these on.”

“I could have done it by force.”

“And violated me afterwards! Oh, James—groovy!”

“Caroline, stop being adolescent!”

“Well, it was a nice idea.” She looked up woefully. “James, you know damn well I don’t want to go back. I’ve found something here—”

“I know what you’ve found.” he agreed savagely. “And I’ve bought you a boxful. Chains, whips, straps, gags . . . You name it! And I’ve also brought me.”

She was suddenly contrite. Hugging his knee she rubbed an affectionate cheek against the cloth. “I’m a bitch and I deserve everything I get over here.” she said quietly. “I was a bitch back home, and I would be again—”

“You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever known—!”

“There’s that side to me as well—” Caroline pondered. “You’ll hate this bit, but that sweet offer of yours—about the box and these handcuffs . . . ! There’s no use a white man using those things on me. It doesn’t work. I don’t spark.”

“You’re infatuated with a nigger?”

“James! Khalief’s your friend too! Don’t call him that!” Her protest filled another silence. Wearily, she tried to explain. “It’s simple really. Any decent white man—you . . . ! I can twist you, prey on your chivalry, make you feel a bastard if you’re the least bit brutal. I could talk myself out of your chains, or these handcuffs, or a whipping. With a few tears I can make you do all sorts of things . . .” She shook her head and sighed. “It’s not that you’re soft or decadent or any of that nonsense. It’s your background, schooling, religion, society. White men just don’t beat their wives!”

“Is that all you want of life, to be beaten?”

“You know it isn’t! The difference is that Khalief can do all these things without feeling a trace of guilt or making me feel brutalised. Sure, I can sweet talk him just as I can you. We play it as a game to see how far I dare go. When I go too far he does the things to me you wouldn’t really want to do, and from him they’re real, terribly real.”

“Hell, Caroline, any man can—!”

“In Africa my punishments are authentic. In the U.S.A. they’d have to be simulated. I know you’d try, but—”

“What d’you have to be punished for!”

“If you don’t know, then I can’t tell you.” She made a gesture of helplessness. “Just because I’m a woman, I guess.”

“So I employ a coloured major-domo whose chief duty is to discipline my wife?”

“James, you’re bitter. I understand that. But your joke . . . don’t you see! It pinpoints the whole thing. Your hired whipmaster would be working to your instructions: no spontaneity, no feeling . . . I expect he’d get an erection because I was naked, and because of what he was doing to me, and I’d hate it! I’d hate it terribly.”

“Maybe it would cure you?”

“No. It would be irrelevant.”

In silence they surveyed the battleground of James Dexter’s defeat. But he was still fighting, his eyes feasting on his captive, his voice reflective.

“If it had been my money instead of Khalief’s that saved Dowling? If I’d hung onto you . . . ? We’d have been O.K.”

“But you didn’t, did you! You sold me down the river.”

“Aren’t you being unfair?”

“Can you imagine my feelings when I woke up on that bed, spread out and tied naked, and there, staring up between my legs, the biggest black man I’d ever seen!”

“I knew he wouldn’t harm you.”

“I know it now, but I didn’t then. I was petrified.”

“You’ve certainly made a good recovery—”

“James, stop! No postmortems. Let’s stay where we’re at. Give me back to Khalief and retain his friendship. You need him. He’s your road to fortune. And besides, you like each other. If this crazy republic holds together he’ll make you richer than Dowling or any of them.”

“I want you.”

Caroline’s heart warmed to the primitive statement. She lay back, hunched and spread her knees and held out her arms. “Come, darling, Khalief won’t mind—even if he knew.” She giggled roguishly. “And bring a cushion or something . . .”

With a growl of defeat he threw aside his clothes.

Trudy was girlishly grateful she was not to be flogged. She knew that had he suggested it she would have said yes without a qualm. She was in that happy euphoria when a girl feels only nobility in complying with her lover’s requests, no matter how painful or how outrageous. But Nykobe had pointed out that her day as a sacrificial display piece tied to the posts would be arduous enough. She glowed and basked in his concern.

They had laughed at her confessions. Each had contributed to the script which she must memorise and deliver with feminine spontaneity for the edification of his subjects and the furtherance of his Cause. Trudy could take nothing about this crazy place seriously and saw no disloyalty. She would have done the same for Khalief Abhad. Though this was an admission she prudently kept to herself. What she was now enduring was bad enough. She was outrageously naked before a thousand eyes. She was compelled to stand for what would probably be a great many hours, and the soldiers had tied the thongs around her wrists with an overzealous severity. On top of this, and pending the oratory and her ‘confessions,’ the populace was encouraged to mount the platform, examine her female parts, ask questions, or read her a homily on white feminine behaviour. Nykobe’s guards below kept an alert eye for lecherous hands—mauling the exhibit was forbidden. But the tied and helpless girl still had to endure a good many sly prods and piercings she could have done without.

Two or three hours of the morning passed before interest waned. The crowd lost its density. Trudy’s visitors became desultory, and amused. They were of all kinds and in all garbs. The Arab influence was well represented. It was, of course, wholly male, its hawk-eyed assessments of her attributes causing her to wonder if they were potential customers for Mr. Saud.

She had seen the holy man among the crowd, his jubbah and kaffiyeh setting him apart, receiving deference. He was old and angular, his eyes fierce above his beard. He stood before her, taking stock, in no hurry to be gone. His words, when they came, were clear and concise. He emphasised them by clasping her head in taloned hands: no doubt in an effort to convert her innocence to the one Faith.

“Don’t blink an eyebrow, you silly little twit. I am slipping keys within your hair, they are gummed to stick and not be seen. They will release you and the troop when you are in the truck. There will be two men only. Overpower them and drive back on the same road until you meet us. Blink if you understand.”

Trudy blinked.

Warrant Officer Ringbolt drew his jubbah more closely about his frame, muttered a verse from the Koran in excellent Arabic, and went his way. He did not look back.

It was minutes before Trudy again took heed of the probing eyes and fingers. She stood, bound to her posts, in a mental whirl of excitement. The troop was not forgotten, it was not yet dispersed. Hope flared, and with it an anxious apprehension about the bits of metal in her hair. She could feel their presence. Could others see! She longed to touch and rearrange but the ropes denied her hands. Overriding all else was the calm authority of Ringbolt’s voice. Warrant Officer Ringbolt was dealing with wogs and had things well in hand. He was solid competence. His fierce anger at the captivity of his cherished troop rubbed off on the captive girl. Revenge would be sweet indeed!

She thought of Nykobe. Her feeling for him was unchanged. African politics were not to be taken seriously and, as far as she was concerned, had nothing to do with a black leader and a white girl. When he mounted the platform to make his speech he stood before her, briefly. His voice was for her alone. “You will be put back on the slave coffle, beloved child.” He winked. “It is best the people see you put to a profitable purpose. I repossess you in Botswalla.”

Trudy understood. If Moghata was to be abandoned to the advancing Zindawban army, Nykobe’s strength would hold the fortress of Botswalla, still further inland. Presumably Mr. Saud was fleeing there also with his recent purchase. Trudy beamed up at her lord and whispered not to worry. She would be a very good girl and would not mind the chains.

Mr. Saud stood ready beside his truck with his tally and his pencil. His coffle of nude pulchritude must be intact. He was not going to be shortchanged by a single girl. His maidens were lamentably helpless. Between the hands cuffed at their back and the collar on their neck they moved with caution. Boxes had been provided as steps for them to mount into the vehicle that would take them to their ultimate and hopeless slavery. The driver and one guard helped their fleshly cargo by hoisting arms and hips and whatever else came handy. Mostly it was a firm and knowing grip between the legs. When the tailgate was latched, twenty helpless girls were under the stern eye of a Saud henchman. Mr. Saud nodded, satisfied. The driver went to his wheel, the motor roared.

Trudy was trembling. Upon her slender naked shoulders rested the fate of twenty chained and naked girls. Yet she was as confined as any of them. She wrenched bitterly at the cuffs on her wrists. If only they had been locked in front! Behind her back they could do nothing. But she had devised a plan. Whispered instructions to Daphne and Maisie had left the two of them as excited as herself. The congestion within the truck was an ally. The coffle had become a tight-wedged confusion of damp femininity who remained upright by falling against each other as their vehicle swayed and bumped. Their guard, standing at the rear, was amused by their fleshy instability and the jouncing of breasts. His perception was for all. He focused on no single girl. When the end of the coffle gravitated to its most distant point from his observation, Trudy nudged her companion on the chain and whispered: “Now!” She slid to her knees in an excusable stumble, thrusting her head against Maisie’s prisoned hands. She held position long enough to feel the fumbling fingers find their treasure in her hair. Sheepishly she rose and leant back to back with the girl who now held the keys to their freedom—perhaps even to their lives!

It was agonising. All three of the white girls were breathless as Maisie’s fingers sought the metal on Trudy’s wrists, and in the metal the tiny orifice in which a key must fit. Against the pounding of the wheels and the sway of naked girls, relying solely on the sense of touch, it was a task well-nigh impossible.

“The little one! The little one—oh Maisie . . . !”

Trudy had never known such life and death anxiety. She held her arms as best she could for Maisie’s convenience, and prayed. “It just turns one way—just one way . . .”

It happened! The tiny thrust as the bit of metal entered its socket. Both girls tensed desperately as fumbling fingers strove to turn. When the metal band opened and released a captive wrist they sighed in unison. From that point the battle was won.

Two keys and a whisper. Freedom made its way around the truck’s human cargo. One key for handcuffs, the other for the collar. Five girls had released themselves by the time the guard grew suspicious. But five against one, and a chain dragged round his throat disposed of him, his gun disposed of the driver. A jubilant Sergeant Galla turned the truck around and headed back whilst excited girls fumbled with keys and fervid exclamations.

The rendezvous was joyous. A Zindawban military vehicle driven by a soldier. Inside it, the W.O., and Captain Rulua. When the handshakes and the hugs were done Warrant Officer Ringbolt came into his own. “Lousy wogs,” he said disgustedly. “The ruddy nerve of ’em—!” He lined his troop up into its familiar formation. Twenty naked girls, all happy, all imbued with purpose. When the driver broke open boxes and handed out sleek new uniforms there were cheers and handclaps. Within minutes the President’s Guard was resplendent. When the latest issue of automatic rifles was passed around they were ecstatic. The W.O. set up targets which were annihilated with unerring accuracy.

“Just to make sure,” he said jovially, “we’ll wipe the floor with those blighters at Moghata.”

“The main force is moving on Botswalla,” Captain Rulua explained. “The honour of subduing Moghata is ours.”

Militarily, their task should have been impossible. Under W.O. Ringbolt it was not. The girls adored this eagle-eyed and aging warrior. They thought nothing of odds, but listened shining-eyed to swift commands. They clambered back into the trucks jubilant in freedom and confident of victory.

Approaching their destination they beheld a strange and lonely figure standing in their path upon the road. It was a woman, wearing soiled panties and a torn bra. Her arms were behind her hack, wrists crossed and tied tight with rope. She could not wave, but looked up at them with wide and appealing eyes.

It was Caroline Dowling.

Captain Rulua took her President’s Mistress in stride. Waving away pathetic explanations, she attired the newcomer in a new guard’s uniform and presented her with a gun.

“I’ve never fired one of these things,” said the bewildered recruit.

“Hit ’em on the head with it then,” the Captain said tersely. “Stay with us, we’ve a job to do.”

The winning element was surprise. A truck roared down upon an unsuspecting garrison from each direction. From them came a withering rifle fire of deadly accuracy. Swiftly mobile and wise with knowledge, the roaring vehicles sought each pocket of Moghata’s defense and destroyed it with ease. In thirty minutes Moghata was theirs. Nykobe’s one hundred and fifty troops were dead or captive. The populace stayed indoors until the shooting stopped. They had seen this all before, and were prepared to cheer for any victor when the time seemed ripe.

“Unreliable bastards!” said W.O. Ringbolt.

To Caroline Dowling it had the air of a recurring dream. Not a nightmare, since she was where she was by her own choice, but a trembling fear with which she must now come to terms. She looked up the taut stretch of her naked arms to where her wrists were roped and raised to expose her body to the lash. From time to time she flexed a tentative knee: it was tiring to stand almost on tiptoe. Her wrists hurt, her shoulders protested, but she did not mind. The beloved possession of Khalief Abhad was happy.

“Once is enough.” Khalief had said firmly. “But, darling, I wasn’t really whipped at all that day at Tulabe!” She knelt beside his chair in her favourite pose and rubbed her cheek against the back of his hand. “Your Nicholas Nykobe made a fiasco out of that one. Moghata’s going to expect a bit of entertainment.” She giggled. “They’ve just been conquered and they’ll expect you to come up with something good. Publicly whipping the decadent white witch—that’s me—will show ’em you’re a jump ahead of Nykobe. The best he did for their day off was have darling Trudy do a confessional and sell her off as a slave.”

“You are a treasure beyond price.” Khalief stroked her hair.

“I’ll put on a good show, Khalief, I promise! All the time Assad whips me I’ll be a female snake, writhing lasciviously. Isn’t that a lovely word! I’ll harden every cock in the crowd. They’ll all love you.”

“Yes, they will,” the President of Zindawba agreed soberly. He looked down with love. “This is something you have to do, isn’t it?”

“Yes. A woman thing I can’t explain,” she laughed delightedly. “But remember my training! All those stripes Assad gave me so I wouldn’t howl at the wrong time—! Damn shame to waste my sufferings.”

“You are very wise and very beautiful,” said the father of his people gently. “It shall be as you wish. Afterwards I will make love to you forever.”

The woman to be whipped returned from reverie as Warrant Officer Ringbolt’s barking commands and the cadence of marching feet heralded the arrival of the Troop. Looking down she managed to catch Trudy’s eye and to make her smile as reassuring as she could in the brief moment before the President’s speech demanded she look contrite and altogether ashamed of herself and of the colour of her skin.

“You are very brave, madam. I will spare you nothing.” Assad’s voice was as gentle as his master’s.

The naked girl clenched her teeth and closed her eyes.

It was far, far worse than her training. But that was to be expected. Caroline was thankful for those other encounters with Assad’s whip in which the measure of the thong and of her own endurance had been matched. Almost joyously she writhed and contorted against her bonds so as to make the tethering rope from her bound hands sway and quiver as a thing alive. The populace beheld her agony in awe.

Whatever an onlooker’s views might be on the subject of whipping naked girls, there could be no denying the erotic beauty emanating from the two players on the stage. The fluid sweep of Assad’s arm as he impelled the leather’s snicker through the air: the shocked flinch of the naked back on impact: and then the flowering into vivid life of the etch mark upon the skin as its owner tore against her rope but made no sound louder than a moan. The lovely nudity twisted and turned and trembled but was forever tautly open for the lash. Panting with her pain, Caroline knew herself as the most vulnerable flesh in all of womankind.

When it ended she was not released. True, there was brandy, held to her dry lips by an adoring Assad. Thoughtful hands released enough of the tension on her arms so that her heels could rest upon the planks. The President’s Mistress smiled her gratitude. She knew herself too potent an exhibit to quickly discard. Her wealed skin would make a fine backdrop for the inevitable speeches. Breathing heavily but thankfully in an aftermath of infinite relief she leaned against the rope by which her arms were still suspended and listened, absently, to the flow of rhetoric.

Trudy listened too! So did W.O. Ringbolt. So also did Moghata! Listened not to a speech but to a rousing declaration of retribution by a ruler deeply affronted by injustice. The President’s Guard of Khalief Abhad had been stripped naked in this Square! In this Square they had been chained and forced to watch the burning of their uniforms. In this Square they had been sold into slavery . . . !

Khalief Abhad was enjoying his own thunder. So was Caroline. So was Trudy and the Troop. The citizens of Moghata were dubious. Their dubiety was justified by the final thunderclap. The President was in excellent voice:

“Retribution! . . . Justice . . . An eye for an eye! A bitter shame Moghata must erase by sacrifice . . . !” Within the next twenty minutes the twenty most pulchritudinous maidens of the town would render themselves naked to his authority within this Square.

The silence was electric. The President allowed just enough for a proper effect before explaining, casually, his confidence the good and loyal people of Moghata would prefer this relatively trivial tribute to the burning of their town and the bulldozing of its ashes.

Caroline watched breathlessly, the scorching excoriations on her skin almost forgotten in the drama of the moment. The Troop envied her the vantage of her view. The townsfolk looked at each other askance. Sundry damsels who, a few minutes previously, had been enthusiastic applauders of Caroline’s penance began a prudent shuffle to the rear. A retreat ruthlessly terminated by the firm clutch of a parental hand. A girl was just a girl, but a house or a shop was something else again! In Moghata it had suddenly become a bad day for daughters.

Not all the maids were modest. One superbly endowed young woman strode arrogantly forward. Declaimed in ringing tones: “Long live Nicholas Nykobe!” Threw aside her garments as though their touch offended. Then, disdainfully, offered her hands to the closest soldier to be hound, her whole bearing proclaiming scorn as they were handcuffed behind her back.

Several others followed her example, noble in their Cause. They stood, breasts heaving, heads high as their wrists were locked. For a little while they would bask in glory: and there was always the possibility the President would admire their breasts and wish to examine them personally. They kept their feet nicely apart to obstruct no view, looking jealously at each other’s pubic bush.

But their number was few! After a dragging lapse of minutes, middle-aged matrons broke ranks and delivered to the military a trickle of damsels who had to be physically pulled into a prominence they did not desire. Firm fingers on reluctant arms made it clear which way a daughter’s duty lay. The daughters wept to no avail and eyed the Army’s rampant cocks, clearly visible beneath military pants, with apprehension. Mothers walked back with the coverings of chastity over one arm whilst she who had worn them tearfully positioned her arms for the handcuffs. When the supply of metal restraints gave out, the soldiers resorted to rope and laughed enjoyably at the feminine protests as they tied the knots: “Please, suh, not so tight,” or, “That’s hurting me, you dumb ox!” and the inevitable. “Yo’ don’ need to tie me. I promise I be good.”

The stretching out of the length of the coffle chain and its metal collars caused sensation. The completed assembly of twenty youthful females eyed it with disfavour. Some struggled uselessly as the collar was raised to their neck. Others accepted the metal band without demur, their spirits already passive from the clutch of cuffs upon their wrists and an awareness of vulnerability. The soldiers’ hands left no fur unfelt! It took several of them to subdue the more militant adherents to the Cause while her throat was circled and locked and the trailing links joined her to her sisters in ignominy. When the order to bend and protrude their bottoms was fully digested there was a further fracas with the recalcitrants: a problem easily dealt with by whipping whatever portions of their person they exposed until their bottom was bent and shining with the rest. The twenty proffered posteriors was an impressive sight. The President of Zindawba was an opportunist.

He announced resoundingly that since a white woman had given her all for the Republic he could do no less. Warm as the day might be, he himself would personally thrash the twenty naked bottoms of a delinquent town. He would use the ignoble cane, as had been done to the members of his Guard, and would deliver the same number of strokes. Failure to hold still for the honour of his attention would earn a flogging.

It might be said that never had so many winced so well. The recipients of the strokes winced, their families winced for them, the Troop winced in bitter sympathy, and Caroline winced as the cane buried itself in young and girlish flesh with an outrageous splat. Tears flowed freely and feminine exclamations of dolor were loud and varied. Only the most hardy and optimistic damsels spread their legs and thrust back with their pudendums in the hope their pouting labia might spark an executive interest in what they had to offer.

But the biggest sensation was yet to come. The President, only mildly sweating after his exertions, resumed the platform and explained that since his Guard had been sold into slavery and the money received by unworthy members of the Republic, an obligation upon the nation remained unfulfilled. Zindawba believed in trade. It believed in trust. Its reputation for integrity must remain unsullied by default. Restitution was imperative, its means were obvious . . . !

The Troop’s heart bled for the surrogate twenty.

The twenty themselves shuffled and clinked their chains and snubbed each other’s necks until they desisted in a dolorous recognition of impotence. Tears flowed afresh. Caroline looked down in pity and wondered what their slavery would be.

Mr. Saud glowed. His relief was obvious, his gratitude effusive. Shaking the Presidential hand upon the platform he spoke glowingly of the New Republic and its ruler. He lied colourfully as to his conviction that his investment in Zindawban damsels would not be forfeit to the fortunes of war. He assured concerned parents of their daughters’ prospects in their new life. Each would achieve a bliss beyond the capacity of Moghata to bestow. Their brief discomfort in the coffle was but a conditioning prelude to glory . . .

Mr. Saud even got his truck back. The twenty hostages to a rebel Cause were loaded therein to the chime of chains, and Mr. Saud and his entourage departed in a cloud of dust. The President’s Brass Band played the Zindawban national anthem with elan.